Remembrance : A Santa Barbara story
By Kevin Hardy						Accueil   Home

June 18, 2023

Santa Barbara, California

A smiling Sophia Capwell sat at her dressing table in the master suite of the Capwell Estate. The 82-year-old lady was lost in thought, as she ran a silver-plated comb through her whitish-blonde hair. The house, which had seemed so full a few days before, had slowly begun to empty out once more. She could not remember a time when she had been surrounded by so much family in her home, they having congregated for the double union of Adriana and Mikey Donnelly, alongside Eden and Cruz. She thought back to just a couple years prior when everything had seemed so bleak. Eden had been in intensive therapy abroad and C.C. had taken ill, with COVID-19 was still a bitterly current reality. But now the world was healing, Eden was just a few kilometres away with her beloved Cruz and C.C. was miraculously out for a jog. There were so many moments in her life where she had stopped believing in happy endings, but here she was living in one, and it was remarkable. She could not pinpoint the precise moment when everything become right, but perhaps that had been just a few days before, sitting in the Capwell study with Eden, the ceremony still a few hours off. She had been lamenting how many years in her life, primarily those in Italy, were lost to her.

June 15, 2023

"I remember more than I’d like,” Eden had said in response. “But most of all I remember the loneliness and the despair, even when there was no memory attached.”

Sophia nodded, her hands resting on Eden’s shoulders, she feeling her daughter’s power radiating through her fingertips. The anguish over Eden’s suffering was etched into her face so deeply at this moment. “That is something I pray we didn’t have in common,” she murmured.

"How did you deal with it?” Eden wondered. “After you were back, I mean.”

Sophia shook her head. “A lot of deep breathing,” she quipped.

"So Lamaze is the key,” Eden laughed, as she shook the golden blonde hair from her face.

Sophia returned the laughter. “I suppose.”

"There are some things we have never talked about,” Eden began, her tone tentative. The anticipation of this conversation chilled her.

Sophia regarded her daughter in great gravity, and with great love. “Like what, honey?” she asked softly.

Eden braced herself, her resolve growing stronger. “Like the day I shot you,” she proclaimed, “Marcello feels it’s time.”

Sophia shook her head vigorously. “I don’t blame you, honey,” she remarked, “you were so sick. Trust me, I can relate.”

Eden turned her back to her mother, her hands wrapped protectively across her chest. “I can blame it on buried trauma, on head injuries, your leaving, on a thousand different resentments, but at the end of the day it was my responsibility.”

"There is nothing to forgive,” Sophia insisted, as she pulled Eden back towards her. “I left you when you needed me the most.”

"But that wasn’t your choice or your fault,” Eden stressed.

"Perhaps,” Sophia reflected, “but I was certainly responsible for the events leading up to it; me and no one else. The guilt I feel for my affair with Lionel, for the way you found out, it’s overwhelming. And then that day on the train to Monte Carlo, I never should have let Marcello hypnotize you.”

"I guess I never understood that,” Eden admitted with frankness, yet no judgment.

"My life in retrospect,” Sophia started, her inflection soft and flat, “it is so hard to understand, what I remember of it, even in my own mind. When I get too close to a painful memory, it gets further away from me.”

"Marcello says that’s the way our mind protects itself,” Eden volunteered.

"Then my mind is doing a bang-up job. I remember maybe about half of my first 10 years in Italy now, but I almost see it as an outsider, with so little emotion attached.”

"Did you remember any of us when you were gone?”

"Oh, Eden, no,” Sophia revealed, as she briefly stroked Eden’s hair. “At the time I knew none of my real life. It was all given to me in pieces, and still there are so many gaps. I can’t recall what brought it back initially, but much of my memory resurfaced in 1979, just before Channing came home from Europe, and my only intention was to return to you all. But then Channing died, and there is a lot of blank space again over the next year, mostly when I was in Anchorage, and I have no memory of travelling back to Italy.”

"It must all be so confusing for you,” Eden assessed.

"Even more than it sounds,” Sophia confirmed. “The real breakthrough, and the first time I really remember seeing clearly again, was right after our train encounter. From that point forward, I realized I needed to find a way back into your lives, to help free Joe and bring Lionel to justice, or so I thought.”

"Listen, Momma, I know better than anyone it is not healthy to bury memories,” Eden spoke in earnest, “and that’s not something I intend to do, but that doesn’t mean we can’t move on from them. We made such great strides after you came back, and that is the essence of who we are. I just wanted the chance to apologize for moving us away from the good place we were."

"How about we just move forward?” Sophia queried. "Yours and Adriana's wedding day is certainly the perfect time for that. Maybe your father and I should renew our vows," she joked, "make it a real generational event."

Eden cocked her head and smiled, as mother and daughter shared a deep embrace.

Back at her dressing table, Sophia smiled as her mind drifted further back and across the years, suddenly landing in a memory she was not immediately able to recognize as her own.

June 29, 1974

Siena, Italy

A pensive Sophia sat at her dressing table, this in the Armonti ancestral home, combing her long blonde hair. Although having recently turned 33, in many ways the lady was five-years-old. She remembered little of her previous life, this existing only in flashes. She had been reborn on a sandy beach thousands of kilometres away, and then again in this stately Italian manor. Soon a brand new chapter of her life would begin, this being her wedding day. Her eyes drifted to the photograph on the corner of the burl wood table, which featured her and the Count Domenico Armonti. He was an enigmatic man, and notoriously shy, known unofficially as the Italian Howard Hughes. Like Mr. Hughes, these qualities did not prevent him from building Armonti Industries, one of the premiere designers of international fashion. It would be difficult to recognize the diminutive man in a crowd, he so often hiding his face behind sunglasses and a black fedora, not to mention his thick beard. But Sophia had made him promise his face would be on full display for this blessed day.

“Mother?” sounded a voice from behind Sophia.

“You’re a few minutes too soon for that, Marcello,” Sophia tittered, this echoing the carefree nature of her long-forgotten persona.

“You look lovely,” the Count’s stepson complimented her.

Sophia smiled widely, in that special way actresses learned, even though memories of this life had been lost to her. “Thanks, darling,” she acknowledged sweetly.

June 18, 2023

Santa Barbara, California

Sophia pushed back suddenly, almost sending her chair toppling. The memory had been so vivid, and one she thought to be lost forever. As she had attempted to explain to Eden, the memories of her time in Italy were spotty, these existing mostly in her mislaid dreams. She did not know what to make of the feelings percolating inside of her. There was love, but it felt twisted somehow, more dark than light.

Sophia was snapped out of her reveries by the entry of a sweating C.C., the 97-year-old surprisingly spry. His breathing was slightly laboured, but he seemed the picture of health.

“Hullo, darling,” C.C. greeted, as he kissed Sophia lightly on the neck, leaving a drop of perspiration in his wake.

“Ew,” she needled her husband. “Are you feeling okay, I hope you’re not pushing yourself too hard.”

C.C. smiled, as he posed for his beautiful wife. “I’m feeling mah-vellous, Sophia,” he proclaimed, echoing Billy Crystal. While he would never admit it, it was a rare Saturday night he did not spend with the Not Ready for Prime Time Players.

“Does it get tiring?” Sophia questioned mischievously.

“What’s that?”

“Beating death.”

C.C. laughed. “Who would C.C. Capwell be if not the master of the universe?” he asked grandiosely.

Sophia chuckled. “How did Mason do?”

“He collapsed a few miles back, probably somewhere on State Street.”

“You will bury us all,” Sophia remarked.

“I’ll pencil that in for later this morning,” C.C. decided. “Anything else besides mass death on the agenda today?”

“I’m having lunch with Kelly and Nick before they go back to L.A.”

C.C. stood behind his wife, staring at her reflection in the antique mirror of her dressing table. “You’re still okay with her moving the Armonti offices?” he solicited.

"I think it’s time for this old broad to loosen the reigns a little bit, like you did with Brandon and Capwell Enterprises. How about you, did you have any plans?”

C.C. smiled warmly. “Greg and I are going to go riding, we’re taking out the new mare.”

Sophia took C.C.’s smile and raised him a bigger one. “I am so glad that you two made some peace at the reception.”

“Giant steps are all I take now,” C.C. guaranteed. “I’ve come to realize I won’t be on this mortal coil forever and I will not waste any more time. When I pass on, I want it to be with no regrets, and no unfinished business.”

“Sing it, brother Capwell,” Sophia testified, as she raised her hands to the heavens.

“This holy man is going to hit the shower, my darling,” C.C. relayed.

“You show that shower who's boss,” Sophia joked to C.C.’s rolling eyes, as he entered the washroom. Sophia then looked back to her reflection in the mirror, while continuing to comb her hair.

“Dammit!” she soon cursed, as the tooth of the comb scraped her forehead, a drop of blood pooling on the surface of her subtly sun-spotted skin.

February 3, 1977

Siena, Italy

“Stay away from me!” Sophia Armonti screamed, as her right cheek was struck, the broken skin immediately welling up with blood.

An impossibly swift Domenico Armonti grabbed his wife by the waist and threw her across the room, her left wrist shattering on impact with the papered wall, which now bore her imprint. The terrified Sophia slid crookedly down to the floor, her broken body convulsing in the wake of a bloodcurdling scream. It was then the door to the bedroom flung open and a frantic Marcello burst in.

“Leave us, Son,” Domenico barked in Italian, as spittle flew from the corners of his mouth, “this is not your place!”

Marcello crossed the room to stand between his father and the bastard’s battered bride. “I will not let you hurt her anymore!” Marcello roared, feeling fiercely protective of his stepmother.

A cackling Domenico advanced upon his son and struck him with a belt, tearing open a small section of his scalp. “Who are you to stop me?!” he screamed maniacally.

A seething Marcello, blood dripping down his temple, grabbed for the lamp on the nightstand, yanking out its plug in the process. With an unknown fury, he smashed it into the side of his stepfather’s head, beating him to a bloodied pulp. As bits of actual brain matter oozed from her husband’s ear, Sophia began to scream for the young man to stop, grabbing onto his left arm with her good hand. Marcello dropped the lamp in shock and stepped back. His hair was askew, and he was panting heavily, his violent instincts beginning to fade.

“We need to go to the police,” Sophia pleaded.

“How would I ever explain this, Sophia?” Marcello cried, his voice sounding impossibly helpless. “Please, I need time to think. This will destroy me, and my entire professional career. And for what, this monster?!”

A trembling Sophia nodded, her tears shining in the moonlight that danced across the darkened bedroom. “You’re right,” she realized, her motherly instincts taking over, “let’s think about what we can do.”

Two Hours Later

Marcello returned to the bedroom, where Sophia was gently cradling the wrist he had set for her. She was sitting on the bed she had remade, this having proved to be more painful than she could imagine. “Is it done?” she asked nervously, as she stared into the impassive face of her stepson.

Marcello nodded tersely, he having disposed of his father’s body. He sat down on the bed next to his stepmother, as he relived the death of a second father in his mind. “As everyone knows my father was a very reclusive man, so no one will question his disappearance. For now we will go on like usual, and when the time is right, we will declare him dead.”

“What did you do with him?” a shaken Sophia prompted.

Marcello put his excessively scrubbed fingers to her cracked lips. “Shhh, you do not have to worry about that monster anymore,” he soothed, as he gently lifted her wrist. “How are you feeling, Sophia?”

“Better,” the lady lied, as she failed to fight back the tears.

“You will be fine now,” Marcello promised as he caressed her hair and began to kiss away her tears.

Sophia recoiled, her body tensing even further. “Marcello, what are you doing,” she protested, “stop it!”

“Shhhh,” Marcello repeated, the sound reverberating in her broken mind. Never was one syllable more frightening to her ears.

Marcello continued to caress Sophia, he feeling at once powerful and powerless. Despite her renewed objections, he forced himself on her, again and again. The next two years were a blur of disconnected memories and sick affection. Sophia’s lucid moments grew fewer and fewer as she became more and more dominated by the twisted stepson of an evil man.

June 18, 2023

Santa Barbara, California

“Mom, are you okay?” a concerned Kelly Hartley asked. The woman was gently shaking her mother’s bare shoulders.

Sophia looked around herself in a daze, trying to decide which reality she was in, the flashbacks being so real to her. “Kelly?” she questioned, as she focused in on her youngest daughter. Sitting next to her was an equally concerned Nick Hartley.

“Yeah, Mom,” Kelly confirmed.

“What’s going on,” Sophia demanded, “where am I?”

"The Orient Express,” a worried Kelly answered, as she motioned around the train-inspired restaurant atop the Capwell Hotel, her sister’s pride and joy. They were seated at a booth positioned against the window, this overlooking the Pacific Ocean.

“How did I get here?” Sophia further inquired.

Kelly looked to Nick, both puzzled by Sophia’s unusual behaviour. “One foot after another?”

Sophia grinned weakly. “Can we do this another time?” she requested.

Kelly leaned in and squeezed Sophia’s forearms. “Momma, what’s wrong?” she persisted.

Sophia put on her best actress smile. “I’m just feeling a little bit under the weather,” she stated, this not a total lie. “Now, legal has finalized all the details for the relocation, and everything is waiting for you at the office.”

Kelly pushed back into the plush off-white cushion of the booth and considered her mother, her mind switching tracks. “Are you sure this is what you want?” she elicited.

Sophia nodded with a grin, the actress in her now in full command. “Besides, Santa Barbara is nowhere near the fashion capital of the world. Since I refuse to lose you both to Milan, London or New York, L.A. is the perfect compromise location for Armonti to be based. I’ve always known that but was just too stubborn, I suppose. Plus it will keep you close to Jenna.”

Nick squeezed Sophia’s hand. “Thank you, Sophia,” the man appreciated warmly. “It means a lot for you to think of my daughter.”

“You just take great care of my daughter,” Sophia mock threatened.

“Always,” Nick pledged, this promise the truest he could ever make.

“Let us drive you home,” Kelly offered.

“I’m fine, honey,” Sophia casually deflected.

Kelly stood her ground, as she laid her left palm on Sophia’s head. “No ifs, ands,”

“Or buts about it,” Nick finished.

“Where’s Daddy?” Kelly asked a half-hour later, as she sat on the edge of Sophia’s bed. The older woman had just taken a couple of Aspirin and was lying down next to her daughter.

“He’s with Greg,” Sophia explained, “but he’ll be home soon.”

“Okay,” Kelly capitulated, “you get some sleep. Nick and I don’t fly out until tomorrow, so I will see you later.”

Sophia offered her daughter a smile, this one completely genuine. “Thanks, honey.”

Once Kelly had left, a frightened Sophia curled up into a ball on her bed, she being terrified of the memories that were overtaking her. She was suddenly petrified of a man she had always remembered as being so warm and loving of her, a man whom she had entrusted with the mental health of those most dear. Even though he had made mistakes, he had always done so out of love, hadn’t he?

July 10, 1979

Siena, Italy

Sophia awoke, her entire body sore and her skin burning. Her blurred vision soon sharpened, and she sat up in a messy bed, noticing the straps on her nightgown were torn and there were abrasions on her chest and wrists. Trapped in a paroxysm of tears, her arms flung out, her left hand knocking over a container of pills that Marcello had forced into her mouth earlier that day. It was at that moment, the man entered the room, a folded newspaper tucked under his right arm. He looked surprised by her consciousness.

"Sophia, calm down,” he advised.

"Stay away from me, you bastard!” she screamed.

"Sophia, please, I’m sorry,” Marcello spoke in pathetic desperation, “I want to help you, to love you.”

Sophia backed into the nightstand, a lamp falling onto its side beside her, this the matching light to the one that had killed Domenico two years earlier. With a trembling hand, she gripped the stem of the lamp and swung it blindly forward, this connecting with Marcello’s head. The man instantly crumpled to the travertine floor, his consciousness swiftly ebbing away.

Frantic, Sophia grabbed for her clothes, her mind racing. “What am I going to do,” she wailed, “where can I go?” Her aqua eyes, these betraying her sharp fear, fell to Marcello’s la Repubblica newspaper. There, taking up nearly the entire front page was a colour picture of a striking young man, his hair a matching golden blonde to Sophia’s. The image hit her like a sledgehammer, as a lifetime of memories tore into her. “Capwell!” she shouted, “my name is Sophia Capwell!”

The man in the photograph was her eldest child, Channing. Pictured alongside his father, C.C., the article detailed his pending triumphant return home following a successful polo tournament across Europe. This was to culminate in a grand celebration on the Capwell Estate in Montecito.

"On July 30, 1979,” she whispered. “1979?” she yelped, realizing 10 years had passed since her being ripped from her family. First by Lionel and then by Marcello.

"I’ve got to get home to them,” she mumbled. “But how?”

Perhaps years of captivity, and anti-therapy, had clouded her judgment, but she quickly formulated a plan flawed as though it may be. She grabbed Domenico’s clothes and hat from their shared closet, as well as his passport. Domenico Armonti was going to Santa Barbara.

July 30, 1979

Santa Barbara, California

Flashes of a hastily scrawled out note, a gunshot, Channing’s lifeless body, an encounter with a strange young man in the study corridor and Lionel’s face all blazed through Sophia’s shattered brain. All the while, Marcello was dragging her limp form across the exterior grounds of 300 Park Lane. The woman was oblivious to the world around her as he strapped her into his car. The horror of having killed her son had reverted her to the state he had found her in 10 years prior. Marcello appeared to be the only touchstone to her now, probably due simply to his presence. He had spoken to her in soothing tones and played up his goodness, all the while planting negative thoughts of Lionel Lockridge in her head.

Marcello’s own mind raced like a mouse in a maze, trying desperately to plot a course of action. He knew he could not return to Italy right away, not with Sophia in this condition. His level of guilt was overwhelming as he struggled to come to terms with the atrocities he had committed over the previous two years. He had spent so much time trying to protect Sophia from his father, that he had turned into the man himself. He needed time to think, about how best to help Sophia and himself. For now he would take her to a friend, Dr. Benjamin Raymond, who ran the Beacon House asylum in Anchorage. There, with some carefully modulated memory therapy, they would work to get her well enough to travel, and to return to Italy.

June 13, 1981

Train to Monte Carlo

A shaken Sophia sat in her luxurious train car compartment with Marcello, he in the midst of removing his white tuxedo jacket. “That was my daughter,” Sophia wept, speaking of the stunning blonde in blue, whom Marcello had been flirting with in the casino car. “I have a daughter.”

As soon as she had seen Eden, memories of Sophia’s pre-1969 life hit her like a freight train.

“Yes,” Marcello confirmed. The man had rarely been frightened in his life, but now he was terrified of what she would remember. He lived in fear every day, always steering Sophia away from possible memory triggers.

“And you knew?” she accused him, so unused to feeling this way about a man who had pledged his life in service of hers.

“Yes,” Marcello declared softly.

“What else haven’t you told me?” Sophia challenged.

“I found you in the boat wreckage, like I said,” Marcello floundered.

“Did you know who I was?” Sophia pressed.

“No,” Marcello lied. “Tell me what you remember?” he asked worriedly.

The words poured out of Sophia, the memories flooding in as she spoke them. “I was an actress, I had a family with C.C. Capwell, Lionel pushed me off the boat, you took me to Italy. You, you raped me!”

A flustered Marcello instantly shined a light in Sophia’s face, and he put her under hypnosis in the same way he had with Eden just moments before. “Sophia Capwell, the train is moving through the tunnel. You can see nothing but the faint light at the end of the tunnel.”

Marcello was no longer acting in any ethical way, if he ever had, his morals hopelessly twisted. He carved into Sophia’s mind maliciously. He pulled, prodded, and twisted as if a demented virtuoso. He allowed her to retain her pre-boating accident past, as well as her few happy moments with his father and the good moments she had shared with Marcello prior to his father’s death. He left her with the train encounter with Eden but removed the years he had imprisoned her. The lie of Lionel having killed Channing remained, this forming the basis of an obsession that would continue to be nurtured.

From that day forward, Marcello guided Sophia very carefully, stoking her hatred for Lionel, while always presenting himself as her white knight. Together, they had Domenico declared dead, Marcello saying her husband had mysteriously disappeared during a hunting expedition, this enabling Sophia to gain control of his vast estate. And when the time came that she felt ready to return to Santa Barbara, he did not stand in her way. Call it guilt, call it selfishness, even he could not say. But despite his physical release of her, the control did not stop there. He would remain in close verbal contact and as soon as Joe Perkins had been cleared and Lionel Lockridge imprisoned, he flew to California where, under his manipulation, they would board the Victoria Express to Chicago and return to Italy.

June 18, 2023

Santa Barbara, California

Sophia sat nervously in the artfully cluttered living room of the Capwell Estate, the sun streaming onto her reddened features. Still in a state of shock, she was mentally bracing herself for a confrontation that was almost paralyzing her. It felt like she had lived over a decade in just an afternoon and her life seemed so unreal to her now. Lost in thought, she did not register Marcello’s presence until he spoke.

"Good afternoon, Sophia,” the man cheerily addressed, as the double glass doors shut behind him, that infuriatingly silky voice cutting into her soul.

"Here for your weekly chess match with C.C.?” Sophia inquired icily.

"I am,” Marcello confirmed, confused by his stepmother’s tone. He stopped his approach, standing beneath one of the cast iron lamps, which framed the entryway.

"Ever the chess player, Marcello,” Sophia snarled, as she rose from the white sofa to unsteady feet. “I must concede you really are quite brilliant at the game.”

"I am afraid you have me at a loss, Sophia,” Marcello stated as he searched Sophia’s eyes for some clue as to explain her sudden animosity.

Sophia stood, seething. “You must have lived in constant worry, knowing this day would eventually come,” she spat.

Marcello’s face stiffened, all colour draining away. “I see,” he said, the realization immediately hitting him.

"Is that all you can say, you see?! You are a monster. You stole me from my family!”

"But I saved you, Sophia,” Marcello protested, his fingernails digging into his palms. “My stepfather, he hurt you so much, just like Lionel hurt you. All I did was try to help you, to help your daughters.”

Sophia shuddered, her mouth twitching and eyes moistening. “Enough with your bullshit!” she screeched. “Marcello, you have hurt me more than anyone else I have ever known. You purposefully kept me from remembering my family, and you abused me in ways I don’t want to even imagine more than I already have remembered!”

Marcello tried to approach Sophia, his hands held out, but Sophia backed away and to the distinctive fireplace, which was strangely lit on this unnaturally warm day. Grabbing a heated poker, she thrust it at Marcello, singeing his left leg. “You pushed so hard for me to take revenge on Lionel,” she accused, as the man grasped his burnt thigh in agony, smoke rising from his khaki trousers. “And then you left him for dead when you threw him off the train. All the while you kept saying how happy I was in Italy, how loved I was, how it was better this way. You pressured me to let you hypnotize Eden in Monte Carlo, saying how it was best for everyone. It was best for you!”

Sophia’s body began to twitch, as the poker danced through her quivering fingers, the hot end coming dangerously close to her own petite frame. “I was so special, so different,” she theatrically repeated his long-ago words spoken on the Victoria Express, “the gods wanted me here. Oh, and I remember how angry you were when you thought I wanted to come back for C.C. You were just controlling me, wanting to kill my husband and possess me!”

"How can I make things up to you?” Marcello linguistically scrambled, as he felt for the penlight in his breast pocket.

Sophia stuck the still searing poker into Marcello’s left arm, the man wincing in further agony. “Your little parlour tricks won’t work this time,” Sophia swore knowingly. “You will leave this house and return to Italy, and you will never come back,” she warned, while brandishing the poker in front of his stunned face. “If I see your diseased soul within a thousand miles of here, if you even think of my babies again, I will kill you.”

Just then the living room doors opened, and C.C. entered. The fire poker slid from Sophia’s hand onto the carpet behind the couch and she put on an artificial smile. “Darling!” she welcomed.

"Hi, sweetheart,” C.C. greeted his wife, while placing his hand on Marcello’s elbow. “You ready for that chess re-match, young man?”

"Marcello was just leaving, dear,” Sophia advised rawly.

C.C., standing before a portrait of his grandfather, Nathaniel, appeared perplexed by the tense atmosphere in the room, his brow furrowing.

"Yes,” Marcello agreed in frightened relief, “I was just leaving.”

As Marcello exited the room, Sophia stared after the man who in her mind had turned from saviour to villain in but a heartbeat. She then led a confused C.C. to the sofa. There, he saw she had been crying.

"Sophia, what is it?” C.C. probed gingerly.

Sophia lightly caressed C.C.’s face, the tiniest of smiles on hers. “I have withheld so much from you over the years,” she began, “and you stood by me even when I did not deserve to be stood by. I broke up your marriage, I strayed, I lied about Channing, I blew up an oil well, I hid Eden from you-”

"Sophia,” C.C. started.

Sophia pressed her fingers to C.C.’s lips and carried on. “When we reunited in 1993, at Warren and BJ’s wedding, I vowed to never withhold anything from you, which I have clearly struggled with. But I have been remembering some things from my past, and I want to share all of it. That is the only way to show how much I love you and everything we have created together.”

C.C. pulled Sophia into a tight embrace, after which she told him her tale. She left out no moment, and no feeling. Sophia Wayne unburdened herself in as full a sense as anyone ever had. With the release she was filled with a peace like she had never known, and one that would remain with her until her dying day.

Based on characters created by Bridget and Jerome Dobson in association with New World Television and the National Broadcasting Company.